


Nine Lives

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Cats, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Implied Character Death, Magic Realism, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Canon, Reunions, cat!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-20 18:36:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know, I'm not always going to be here.” John talks to the cat out of the lack of any better response, considering the creature has been consistently finding him wherever he goes.</p><p>Inspired entirely by amythorthree's Habits of Cats, intending to be a prequel.</p><p>Now with a post-Reichenbach addition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting

1

There's a blur out of the corner of John's eye.

2

He pauses in mid-step at the sight of something black streaking across the road. He doesn't see anything when he looks.

3

John has burned his tongue on expensive, black coffee from a cafe when he glances out the window and sees a black cat trotting down the sidewalk. It hesitates as it passes the building he's sitting in.

4

He's leaving Harry's when he sees the cat again. He's frustrated with his sister's attitude about his enlisting in the army, especially when he's the only one she ever turns do during a relapse in her alcoholism.

He runs a hand through his hair and notices the cat sitting next to a stop sign, almond-shaped eyes glinting yellow through the darkness. It startles when he shifts, jumping up, and disappearing into the night.

5

“Oh, you again,” John decides to say to the cat one day when he finds it sprawled out on someone's window ledge. It flicks its tail irately when he dares a step closer, ears rotating back. Its larger than John remembers it being, and he finds a splatter of white fur sitting on its chest in the midst of jet black.

On an impulse, he offers a hand out but the cat hisses and bolts.

6

“You know, I'm not always going to be here.” John talks to the cat out of the lack of any better response, considering the creature has been consistently finding him wherever he goes. He's learned that it won't tolerate petting, or any touching for that matter, but John's content with the bit of company nonetheless.

“I'm being shipped out in a month. You'll have to find someone else to follow around, then.” The cat blinks slowly at him, irises a sharp blue. They watch each other for a moment. John reaches out and the cat strains its neck forward to sniff his fingers before tearing away and vanishing.

7

He leaves a shallow bowl of milk out for the cat, against his better judgment. He hides it between the brick foundations of his flat and shrubbery bordering it, only minutely scratching his hand on the sharp branches.

The cat doesn't show up that night, but when John goes to fetch the stale milk, feeling more disappointed than he should, he finds an empty saucer.

8

John's returned home from a night of mild drinking as a final farewell to London, and what he hopes isn't for good. He finds the cat sitting in front of his door, watching him cautiously with large eyes.

John swallows, slowly making his way up the stairs to avoid startling the animal, and lowers himself into a crouch. The cat rises to all fours, appearing tense with a low sweep of its tail, but makes no indication of wanting to run.

When he holds his hand out, the cat presses its head into his palm.

~~9~~

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” A strange man asks him upon their first meeting, choosing not to look up at John, but rather focusing his full attention on his phone and a text message. He talks fast, bluntly, says his name is Sherlock Holmes and gives John his address.

After winking at him with an almond-shaped eye, he sweeps out of the room like a sudden storm.

Sherlock ends up being fickle, difficult to please, and the most unruly person John has ever met in his life, but he also fits perfectly into the gaping hole in John's life that Afghanistan ripped open, so he doesn't regret his choice in companionship at all.


	2. 9

John is plagued by dreams of blood on concrete for weeks on end.

He has only just returned to 221B after spending nearing a month at Harry's-- Lestrade offered his lilo but John politely declined, biting his tongue to keep himself from screaming _traitor_ at the man. It isn't Lestrade's fault, really, but the wound is still fresh and John is angry at the world and everyone in it.

Most of all, he's angry at himself, but he doesn't intend on sharing that information.

Mrs. Hudson smiles sadly at him as she eases him inside, his heart lodging in his chest as the smell of home assails him, a bit musty but nonetheless painful. It's awfully quiet without the shriek of a violin or sounds of gunshots striking the wall.

John begins to second-guess himself, wondering if he isn't ready to return yet. He remains frozen in place, rolling his hands into a fist and releasing his grip repeatedly.

There's a faint shuffling sound upstairs, and an electric panic shoots up his spine and closes his throat. Mrs. Hudson sees this and makes a small “oh” sound.

“I should've told you, John dear, but it seems we've got a bit of a visitor...” He can't help but notice how she says “we,” even after he abandoned her in favor of mourning in the company of his sister.

“I tried to get him to leave, but he seems to be rather attached to the place, for some reason.” She motions vaguely upward and John cocks his eyebrows at her. She covers her mouth, a smile, with a hand but continues to talk into it.

“Well, I might've left out some milk for the poor thing, since he was awfully skinny. It's considered good luck, you know, to leave them a little something outside your home.”

“I'm sorry, 'them?' Just what are we talking about?” John blinks and shakes his head, confused and slightly suspecting that the wonderful landlady is leading him into some sort of trap.

“A Cat Sidhe, of course. I grew up listening to stories about them, but I never imagined I would be able to see one in my lifetime. They're very rare.” Mrs. Hudson lowers her arm back to her side and nervously plays with the hem of her shirt.

 _I don't like cats_ , John wants to tell her, _make it go away. I don't care if it's some special, fairy cat. I want it out of ou- my flat._

“Alright, then,” he says instead, gathering his courage and heading for the stairs. So Mrs. Hudson allowed some sort of phantom cat into 221B. She was left alone to grieve and probably needed some comfort. It was natural.

If the thing went anywhere near Sherlock's room, however, John intended to punt it out the window.

 

The flat hasn't changed in the slightest, with an exception of a thin layer of dust coating every available surface. John exhales a long breath, looking around his home (can he even call it that anymore?). It's all the same.

Papers are scattered across the desk next to a laptop, and John can almost still see Sherlock sitting at his computer, then standing at the window, watching and waiting for the Yard to arrive to arrest him. They played right along into Moriarty's scheme, in the end. John doesn't know the details of their involvement and he purposely chooses not to ask. He doesn't want to know. Knowing who did what and how _sorry_ they all are won't change the end result and it certainly won't bring his best friend back.

His hand is trembling when he runs it down his face, tugging lightly at the skin under his eyes. He inhales deeply to calm himself, but then sees Sherlock's violin sitting neglected in the corner of the room, and it's all John can do to not collapse onto his knees and sob.

He struggles over to his chair and drops unceremoniously into it, his head in his hands.

_Why, you bastard, **why**? I would have done **anything** if you had just **told me** \--_

There's a soft _mrr_ from across the room, and John slowly peeks up from over his fingers and sees the mentioned cat sitting in the darkness, watching him. He also sees a spot of white on its chest and laughs humorlessly.

“Oh, so it's _you_ now? Finally found me again, did you?” He puts every ounce of venom into his words as he can, but true to its nature, the cat ignores him and strolls over anyway.

 _He. Not an it_ , he reminds himself upon remembering Mrs. Hudson's words, not that he particularly cares. _It's_ a bloody cat.

“So you're some sort of... fairy cat thing.” John irritably waves his hand at the cat. “Well that does shite to help me. I don't even like cats.”

“Mrr,” the cat replies, blinking up at John. It bumps his leg lightly with its head. He stifles a sigh.

“You aren't getting anything from me. You already got milk from my landlady.”

The cat jumps into his lap, meowing loudly in his face.

“Good lord, why can't you just leave me alone?” John winces as the creature's claws dig into his legs, easily through the fabric of his pants as though they were tissue. “I don't even want you here, you stupid thing.”

The cat looks right at him, then, eyes wide and a brilliant blue-silver. After several seconds and a brief internal conflict, John swallows hard and lifts a hand to gently scratch behind a black-furred ear. He feels surprisingly rewarded when it leans into his touch, eyes closing.

“I suppose, I did give you something too, didn't I?” He mutters as he pets the cat and knowingly seals his fate, “I didn't actually know you were a fae. Always assumed you were some pampered house-cat who had gotten out. So that's me being an idiot.” He chuckles a little at himself, feeling lighter.

The aforementioned being has chosen to curl up on John's lap, contently flicking its- _no, his_ \- tail in tiny movements.

“I don't actually know much about this sort of thing but-” he cuts himself off, worrying his lower lip. It's all bit silly, this nonsense with fairies and cats and blessings. He feels ridiculous openly talking to a cat as it is, but it's remarkably soothing. Half of him is hoping that he is being understood in some abstract way; that this cat will respond to his words and not simply use him as a seat.

“I'm not sure if you can do multiple wish-granting, or whatever it's called... but you can stay as long as you like and have as much milk as you want, if I'm granted another miracle.”

The cat's eyes open partially and John smiles halfheartedly at him.

“I- I've lost someone recently... Someone very important to me.”

9

**Author's Note:**

> "Some people believed that the Cat Sìth was a witch that could transform voluntarily into its cat form and back eight times. If one of these witches chose to go back into their cat form for the ninth time, they would remain a cat for the rest of their lives." --Wikipedia (Cat Sìth)


End file.
